The Pragmatic Imparative
by Animekitty2
Summary: An indecisive final battle leaves the wizarding world in chaos; leaving  Hermione Granger separated from the man she loves. To rescue him and the world as well, she quests for the power to affect her future; even if it means facing Voldemort as an equal
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

I tend to dislike author's notes because I don't really enjoy reading about a writer's tribulations, their need to apologize and/or explain themselves or their story. After all, if I need to do either then I somehow blew the narrative or my presentation and means that I failed in my attempt at writing. Also, I do my best to present my imagination in an intriguing and intelligent manner; inviting others along on my journey, as I write but that isn't why I write: I write because I like to write; it's as simple as that. Don't get me wrong, I like it when others read my stories and I like it when they like what I wrote but I'm not really motivated by that and it seems I've wandered from the purpose of this note . . .

So, back to my original intent, which is providing the information needed to understand the relational dynamics between Hermione and Severus and our heroine's motivation. To understand their relationship, I have to direct you to 'For the Potions Master's Amusement' by snape[dot]submis That is an M rated story featuring BDSM themes (you've been warned) but this tale diverges at chapter 66. In this, the last battle was indecisive. Both 'The Order' and the 'Death Eater's' followed the muggle credo 'M.A.D.' (for those not old enough to remember 'The Cold War' that's Mutually Assured Destruction—rather stupid, I know—but there you go; we are dealing with muggles after all), which leaves both factions with more dead than alive members. (And, let's be honest, dead members don't really contribute much, anyways) Now; with so many departing their mortal coil and those left behind in hiding, the shadowy threads of manipulation and influence, over the M.o.M—once held by the puppet-masters', Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore—have been severed. This leaves a directionless ministry in its wake and a void in the power structure of society. In its place, chaos takes reign; threatening to spiral beyond the magical world and engulf the muggle world as well.

At least one person has seen it and has decided to act—well sort of—in a pragmatic, rational and non-ideological manner.

It is now fourteen months after that faithful day and Hermione now understands what prophesy truly is: the ability to predict a future by extrapolating events through the lens of history, with respect to human behaviour and endeavour, and foretelling the course it may take by deciding the most probable outcome. (Eek! Shades of Isaac Asimov's Psycohistory from the Foundation series) So, with our leading lady playing the role of Hari Seldon (see the bit immediately prior to get the reference) she has begun training and plans to save her beloved and maybe the rest of the world, too.

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them for my amusement.

* * *

><p><strong>The Pragmatic Imperative<strong>

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

_A glowing blob of green death streaked through the air; catching the masked figure in the chest. It lifted the now lifeless body from the floor and threw it at the wall where it hit with a sickening thud. It collapsed into a heap like a crumpled marionette and, upon hitting the floor; the Death Eater's mask melted and, looking sightlessly through still open eyes, __Gregory Goyle stared into eternal darkness. Then, in the stillness that only accompanies death, the body began to melt and with it Roissy House._

Her first waking thought was that her bed seemed much harder than usual and far colder than was comfortable. Her head ached, as did her body, and her eyes were tear filled. The tears, she knew, weren't due to the pain in her body but due to the pain from her memories as she once again considered her actions that day, fourteen months ago. For one who had been called 'The Smartest Witch of her Generation' not knowing an answer usually sent her to a book but, unfortunately in this, there was no book to read nor teacher to ask. No, in this, she was forced to seek her own counsel and find her own wisdom: _Am I upset because I killed Goyle or because I hated Goyle enough to kill him?_ Hermione Granger considered for neither the first nor the last time.

"Ouch," she whimpered as pain reminded her that surface she was lying on wasn't conducive to comfort; it was too hard.

Therefore, unable to put off the inevitable, she opened her eyes; only to find that the dim torch light felt like needles of molten iron. This caused her already tear-filled eyes to water more but the courage that had sorted her into her house reared and, fighting the inconvenient sensation of pain, she kept them open and focused on her surroundings. The first thing she saw was the floor she was lying on and then the leg of the workbench, which had become like her lover for more than a year. This workbench and the library's table and chair—in the bookshelf lined alcove on the other side of the room—accounted for the majority of her time spent in this place; honing both the knowledge and the skills needed to face what had to be done. The bed was, by far, a distant third.

"How . . . How long?" She said weakly as she painfully pushed herself to her hands and knees.

Hermione did not enjoy the rewards of her effort as vertigo and an all too familiar discomfort in her stomach washed over her. She fought the urge to retch and forced herself to a sitting position; breathing deeply, she waited for an answer.

"About four days," a smooth baritone voice replied.

"F . . . Four days," she croaked, her sandblasted throat protesting its arid discomfort.

A glass of ice water simmered into existence. It was a welcome gift and she reached for it. Weak but greedily, she thirstily downed its contents: thankful for the enchantment that allowed her to quench her thirst without refilling the glass.

"Did you say four days?" she asked with a stronger voice and a clearer head.

"There abouts, I would've moved you but I didn't want to disturb you; you . . . looked . . . comfortable."

"Did I now?" Hermione said, rediscovering some cynical humour. "I guess having no arms had nothing to do with leaving me on the floor then?"

"Well . . . there's that too."

"Thanks Sly, you're such a snake," She said as she unsteadily rose to her feet and dusted herself off.

"You're welcome," Sly replied.

Hermione stretched, considered her surroundings and, looking at Sly, marvelled at the magic that allowed such a creature to exist. _Creature?_ Hermione considered, not for the first time. _Creature is wrong; Sly is a floating, magically imbued, emerald that glows with an internal fire: he is not a creature, per se; he isn't even a life form—he doesn't meet the criteria. Founder magic, _she thought and shook her head in never ceasing amazement. _I wish I could've met the man; that Salazar Slytherin was one hell of a wizard._

"Hermione?"

The sound of Sly's voice interrupted her reverent musings, on the founder's cleverness; causing her attention to return to the fist-sized gem hovering at eye level.

"How do you feel?"

Hermione considered the question and, after a brief self-examination, said drolly, "I'm alive aren't I?"

"So it would seem but that wasn't really what I was asking," Sly replied with concern. "I want to know how you're feeling. You've just woken from a magically induced, four day long, bout of unconsciousness; I want to know if you're alright."

"I know," Hermione responded kindly to Sly's concern. "I'm stiff, sore and achy but otherwise feel okay. I'm still a little thirsty and hungry enough to eat wildebeest. I feel kind of funny, too; it's like my centre of gravity has shifted, it's forcing me to continually readjust my balance. My ears feel kinda strange and—this may sound weird—I feel taller. No . . . taller isn't the right word," she mused, abstractly, "longer . . . I feel longer."

"Wildebeest and longer, huh?"

"Sorry . . . wildebeest?" Hermione sounded confused.

"A moment ago, you said you were hungry enough to eat a wildebeest. Why a wildebeest?"

"I don't know, why not a wildebeest?" Hermione sounded confused. "Is there a purpose to this conversation?"

"I'm just establishing the extents and effects of your transfiguration."

"Transfiguration . . . you mean into an Animagus?"

"What else could I mean?" Sly responded sarcastically. "Have you a transfiguration I'm not aware of?"

Hermione ignored Sly's jab and continued, "I transformed, didn't I . . ."

". . . and back, yes."

"Therefore," Hermione began in her 'of course it worked; did you expect otherwise from me' tone, "I properly formulated and cast the spell, right?"

". . . I suppose," Sly agreed, hesitantly.

"And successfully held my Animagus form, in my mind, when I transformed?"

". . . You could say that, I guess."

"You could say?" Hermione was beginning to sound annoyed. "I felt the change and saw the results; you saw them too. Perhaps the change back was a little rough but I'm standing here and talking to you, aren't I?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Then, obviously, I was successful."

"I guess you could say that, too," Sly sounded evasive.

"Sly?"

"Hermione?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Remember the conversation we had regarding the history of animagus transformations?" Slay asked cagily.

"Of course, you know I almost never forget anything," Hermione replied without sounding boastful or condescending; she was simply repeating a well-known fact.

"Do you remember what I told you about failure?"

She nodded her head hesitantly as her quick mind added two and two together and got five: Hermione began to worry.

"I mentioned that failure tended to result in a witch or wizard looking very silly or very dead or—more commonly than not—both," Sly continued cautiously. "Well . . . you sort of beat the odds, Hermione."

"Mirror!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice edging on hysteria.

A three-panel wardrobe mirror, like those found in clothing stores, appeared before her and with it her reflection. She studied the person staring back with relief, as she thankfully realized that she still—well, mostly anyways—looked like she always had but for a few superficial differences and, should she come upon someone she knew, they would likely recognize her. _After all, _she thought, _people change their hair color all the time; it's not even radical. _She thought, as she considered Tonks and her penchant for odd colored hair. _Besides, _she reflected, _it's not like I was going to be next month's 'Warlock's Frisky Familiar' anyways and doesn't change who I am inside, right?_ Taking one last look at her new reflection, she banished the mirror as she turned to face Sly and gave him the, 'Oh well, there's nothing I can do about this' shrug and a little shy smile.

"I can live with this," she simply stated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

Okay, so I cheated a bit (well maybe a lot) and borrowed and/or paraphrased my first few paragraphs, or so, from 'For the Potions Master's Amusement' (Chapters 66: Sacrifice & 67: Clarity) and now owe a debt of gratitude to snape[dot]submis for providing such a wonderful universe to build a story in and adaptable content. Once more, I have to direct you to that story if you want to understand the history from which I'm writing but I should be on my own, except for the odd reference here or there, after this.

**Chapter 02**

Roissy House, 14 months ago

"Sectumsepra!" The sound of a young man's voice, sickeningly familiar to Hermione, exclaimed; his verbalization followed by a distinctive and familiar slashing of a wand. She had seen it before—had been on the receiving end of the hex, no less—and it had haunted her nightmares since that fateful night at the Ministry. Stunned by the brutality, she watched him trace an angle from just beneath his target's right ear all the way to her left hip; his actions too fast for either Kell or her shield spell and dredging horrifically excruciating memories from Hermione's mind.

In soundless horror, Hermione watched blood erupt from Kell's torn throat and bright red jets spurted with every beat of her heart as the witch collapsed to the floor. Time slowed and Hermione stood frozen by the gruesomeness of what she saw but even then; the coldly analytical part of her mind knew that Kell's carotid artery had been severed, that her friend was bleeding to death and that there was nothing she could do about it.

Hermione felt helpless and from her helplessness, a cold fury began to burn. Slowly at first, it grew until the caldera of her soul could not contain it and then it erupted. A fount of pure, unbridled, magic issued from the young witch known as Hermione Granger as she channeled virtually all the available arcane energy around her. The sudden excessive draw of magical energy reduced the temperature of the room, noticeably; and every charm, curse or jinx weakened or just fizzled out entirely. All eyes swept to the now visible Hermione—her disillusionment spell failing in the absence of sufficient magic to sustain it—and a moment in time was frozen in their minds, forever; they had just borne witness to the birth of something beyond their experience or ken and they were fully conscious of it.

"Avada Kedavra!" Hermione's voice rang out, loud and clear, as she stepped into the midst of the fray and from her wand a blob of green death issued forth. It closed the distance between her and the Death Eater before her and caught him squarely in the chest. The lethal force lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. His body arched through air, losing the symbol of his allegiance—the Death Eater mask—mid-flight, and then he landed in a limp pile on the floor. Hermione Granger looked at her fallen enemy, impassively: Gregory Goyle was dead.

The change that had overcome Hermione faded and she rushed to her fallen friend. She fell to her knees beside Kell's head and conjured a square of white cloth. She was scarcely aware of Reg felling the remaining Death Eater, with a powerful stun, only that he was on his knees beside his beloved, agony on his face.

"Kay," he said, "speak to me. Kay!"

Hermione applied pressure at Kell's throat and nodded tersely at the less grievous but still gushing wound bisecting her torso. "Conjure cloth"' she snapped. "Apply pressure, now!"

Reg, crying in harsh soul wracking sobs, obeyed Hermione's commands and conjured a white cloth: which, beneath his hands, almost immediately becoming saturated with dark red blood.

"I'm sorry, baby; so sorry, I love you. Don't leave me; I swear I'll get better." Reggie sobbed as he pressed harder on her midsection, one hand atop the other. "I was weak and wrong—it was all me. You're a good girl. Don't go."

There was commotion from either direction. Vi flew down the grand staircase with Claudius on her heels while Hadrian approached from down the corridor. There was a confused babble of voices, as lengths of clean white cloth materialized and were handed to Hermione and Reg. They applied them over the top of the sopping bandages already in place, in a vain attempt to stop the flow.

"She needs St Mungo's," Claudius said, standing behind Vi, who had knelt in the gore at Kell's head and begun the singing chant Hermione had used on Severus' wounds.

"We have to control the bleeding before we move her!" Hermione said, accepting another cloth from Hadrian and pressing it down.

"Don't leave me, K," Reggie croaked. His crying had subsided to ragged breathing, his voice ravaged by the shredding sobs which had issued from his throat. "I'll train with Hadrian—he's already agreed, baby. I'll learn to be the Master you deserve."

He leaned up, his hands still pressing on the gory dressing on Kell's stomach, and he kissed her blood-stained cheek and said, "I'll never send you away again. I swear it."

Vi stopped singing and, unmindful of the horrible, slick coating of blood on Kell's neck; pressed fingers to the undamaged side. After a few seconds, she raised her wand and cast a spell. When she spoke, it was in a choked voice.

"She bled out. She's gone."

Reg keened over his fallen love, entreating her not to leave him, as Hermione sat back and cast the same spell Vi had used. She finished the chant and then checked her friend's pulse, too; it was true, Kell no longer had a heartbeat—she had bled too copiously and too quickly for them to stop it.

Kell was dead; it was a simple, inalienable and hideous fact.

Hermione remained at Kell's shoulder. Vi remained beside Kell's head, and Reg—now prostrate—remained beside the still body of his beloved. Claudius squatted behind his crying Vi, pulled her against his chest and held her. Hadrian stood helplessly at the side, grief etched on his face, and from the corridor, Elinore's chair glided silently to a stop beside her husband. She took in the situation, with her usual perspicacity, and said nothing; she simply took Hadrian's hand.

Hermione's mind whirled, almost independently of her emotions and remembered that Dumbledore had once told Harry that there was no spell to bring back the dead (for it there were, why would anyone ever die if someone they loved survived to cast such a spell?). But Dumbledore's words, about what came after death, offered little—if any—solace when one of your closest friends lay lifeless on the floor beside you. Only moments ago, Kell had been a vivacious young woman: the majority of her life ahead of her. Only moments ago, Kell had been with them, fighting: before being struck down by a vile hex cast by the freshly dead Goyle. Only moments ago, Kell had been a living, breathing human being.

_Was it too late? Was that all there was?_ Hermione thought through overwhelming sorrow and, with her friend's blood still fresh on her hands, she contemplated something a white-witch should never contemplate. It was rank, dark and forbidden; it was necromantic. The idea refused to fade or return to the dark corner, from which it had sprang, because it offered a modicum of hope; the only hope actually, gleaned as it were from her studies into Elder Furthark.

Hermione had learned the Elder Futhark runes, so that she would be able to translate the spell Harry needed to destroy Voldemort. In the process, she had learned two very ancient spells: a Healing Charm, she had used to clear a light acne breakout from her face and a rather dark spell intended to rejuvenate a dead organism. Hermione had been repulsed at the notion of using it on an animal, but she had reanimated a dead houseplant with the spell. _Would it work on Kell?_ She contemplated before adding, hypothetically,_ if it didn't; what harm was there in trying? _Hermione made her decision and, taking her wand into her blood-caked hands, she began the incantation. Carefully, Hermione traced the complex wand movements in the air above Kell's body and focused all her skill, power and intent on casting.

"Hermione?" Hadrian said, sounding concerned. "What are you doing?"

Hermione scarcely heard him and made no effort to answer; she continued to chant the ancient words and felt the power of the spell gathering within her. She directed it and all her attention at Kell, her voice rising as she cast and a visible stream of silvery light illuminated her friend's supine form until she was radiant. The heat of it drove Reggie into a sitting position—his eyes questioning, wide and stinging—as Hermione bore down on the tangible edge of the magic; bringing all of her power to bear.

Hermione's efforts were rewarded.

Kell's eyes fluttered open, she gasped for air and her chest began to rise and fall in a natural rhythm: she was alive. Relived, Hermione fell to her knees and felt utterly spent. Exhaustion claimed her body and she began to pant. Sweat ran into her eyes but she didn't have enough strength to lift an arm—let alone wipe her brow—so she was forced to endure the discomfort of the salty drops that stung incessantly.

"Kell!" Reggie exclaimed in tears as he kissed her forehead. "I thought I'd lost you."

Kell parted her lips, as if to speak, but her words remained silent; with a child's frightened eyes, she gazed at her lover.

"D . . . don't try to talk," Reggie whispered as his hand gently brushed a stray lock from his sub's eyes.

Hermione, longingly, watched their touching exchange and wished that her Dom was here to comfort her but, if recent events were an indicator, Severus was likely very busy at the moment. The thought scared her and she began worrying about her former potions master; still, she did her best to focus on the immediate. She took a few deep breaths, to clear her mind, and felt her strength slowly returning as she absently fingered the silver tag, engraved with an ornate SS, on his collar around her neck. Touching it made him feel closer but it also reminded her of his coolly analytical mind and his anger when his instruction were not followed, to the letter. Hermione knew he would be furious that she had returned to Roissy House; obviously being sent to St. Mungo's by Pitty was his way to protect her.

Hermione frowned with unexpected darkness; the thought that he thought that she needed such protection angered her. _He knows what I'm capable of and what I've been through since starting Hogwarts,_ she silently fumed, _how dare he expect me to abandon my friends when they are in danger!_ Hermione immediately felt guilty for questioning her Dom but she didn't let her guilt cloud her coolly analytical mind.

"We still need to get Kell to the healers," Hermione said her voice commanding; not at all in the manner or tone her housemates were accustomed to for the young sub, "and I expect there are other Death Eaters nearby."

"Why do you think there may be more?" Hadrian asked; surprised by the young witch's now very non-diffident tone.

"Because I'm damn sure that Voldemort wouldn't send two useless, stupid gits like Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle on a mission by themselves; let alone on a mission to capture me. He may be evil but Voldemort isn't stupid or ill-informed." Hermione replied with a venomous and frosty tone. "We should get out of here before someone more useful comes to investigate why these two are taking so long."

Her friends had blanched as Hermione spoke Voldemort's name aloud—twice; they glanced nervously around, thinking 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' was about to swoop down upon them or apparate into their midst but Hadrian quickly regained his composure and asked, "Why do you know Death Eaters and why would 'You-Know-Who' want to capture you?"

"Bait," Hermione replied, simply.

Elinore's concerned and questioning gaze fell upon Hermione and she asked, "Bait . . . ? Bait for who, Severus?"

Hermione gaped; _did she hear Elinore right?_ She asked herself before saying aloud, "You do remember who my best friend at Hogwarts was, don't you?"

"Wasn't it Harvey or Harold or Harry something or other?" Vi asked, having found her voice.

"It was Harry Potter," she replied, actually thankful that they had never associated her name with his; she had grown tired of living in his shadow.

"Oh my . . ." Hadrian muttered.

"We're wasting time," Hermione took command once more, "and must leave. Take Kell to St. Mungo's and leave this place at once."

Never had Hadrian, Claudius or Reg ever taken an order from a sub but the fire burning in Hermione's eyes and her tone didn't allow for question, disobedience or argument; that was obvious. Reg scooped Kell carefully into his arms and, one after another, Hermione's friends disapparated from Roissy House; leaving her behind.

Alone, but for the unconscious figure of Crabbe, Hermione glanced around and saw the bodies of Goyle and Simon Curtis lying were they had fallen and silent in death. Looking at these morbid reminders left her cold and unfeeling—not at all what she had expected given the circumstances—but it seemed pointless to dwell on such matters. Her emotions—or lack thereof to be more precise—left her calm and thoughts of her immediate survival became imperative, compelling her to consider carefully what her next step must be. Hermione sat down to think but became distracted by sound coming from Crabbe's direction; he was stirring. She glanced over at him, quickly conjured some rope and, using magic, tied him up and harmlessly left him on the floor. She wearily rose to her feet and walked to where he was lying; she admired her handiwork. _Not bad for Sub,_ she thought with minor, cynical amusement. _Now what should I do? I know I must leave but I guess I should find out how much Crabbe knows about this place and my friends. He'll wake soon._

Hermione drew closer to the secured figure of her hated former schoolmate and, feeling oddly dark and naughty, opted to straddle the young man. She studied him critically and concluded that he was thoroughly and utterly unattractive. _Not at all like my Death Eater,_ she thought and her quim tingled as memories of her Dom danced in her head. Still, she was surprised she had used Death Eater in conjunction with her Severus, but Hermione was a practical girl; she knew you couldn't deny the truth and before he had ever been her Dom or lover he had been both a Death Eater and spy. Crabbe's slowly opened his eyes to the sight of Hermione Granger straddling him; surprisingly, he managed a lecherous smile. _What an idiot,_ Hermione considered, _he has no idea what I'm going to do. What am I going to do? _She asked herself in afterthought.

"If it isn't the filthy mudblood Granger," He pointlessly hissed with a scowl, stupidly, considering his position. "Who'd have thought that the Gryffindor Princess was just a dirty little slut who likes to be tied up and fucked! Want a real man inside you, or do prefer pansies like Potter and Weasel? I'm sure it took both of them to satisfy your dirty mudblood cunt and ass; I bet I can do it alone, no DP required."

Refusing to let him see her angry or offended, by his crude comments, Hermione put on her best sultry and seductive smile. She bent forward and flabbergasted him with a light peck on the lips. She leaned back and looked at what she considered to be a useless example of manhood, and a waste of flesh, she rose to her feet. Her mien changed from flirtatious to searing and then from searing to malevolent; Crabbe was taken aback by a blast of pure hatred, rolling off the young woman in consequent waves.

"You and I are going to play a little game, Vincent," she purred, pointing her wand at him. "I'm going to ask you a question and you're going to give me an answer . . . hopefully a truthful answer—I might add—but it doesn't really matter very much: I will get the answers I need, one way or another. How long and how easy that may be is up to you."

"Wh . . . what makes you think I'll do that?" he demanded, surprisingly willful for one in his situation.

_He really is unbearably stupid,_ she thought as she gave him another smile; there was nothing enticing in this one, this smile bordered on unadulterated evil. _If only all of Voldemort's Death Eaters were this dumb we'd have already won,_ she thought.

"Because . . . I'm . . . going . . . to . . . say . . . please," she purred maliciously seductive, emphasizing the last word.

"Please! Hah," Crabbe hissed, "is that the best a goody two shoes mudblood like you can do?"

"Hmm . . . Good point," she replied, immediately thoughtful. "How about this then . . . Crucio!"

Crabbe writhed under her wand, his bonded body twisting and rolling on the floor as if to escape Hermione's curse. _Hmm . . . 'Unforgivables' are easier the second time around,_ she methodical considered in comprehension. _Oh,_ she thought absent-mindedly; realizing she was maintaining her Cruciatus Curse on the young Death Eater. _Can't have him passing out on me; that would be no fun. _She lifted the curse.

"Weak," Hermione mutter, Crabbe had indeed passed out under her tender ministration. She flicked her wand and said, "Aguamenti."

A jet of icy water issued from her wand and splashed Crabbe's face; he woke. He sputtered and coughed and his eyes widened with the sight of the filthy little mudblood slut pointing her wand at him. Suddenly, the ever-thick Crabbe grasped the simple fact that the young Miss Hermione Granger was not playing games: at least not games he was intended to enjoy. For the first time he felt afraid—very afraid—of the lithe young woman before him and saw the fire in her eyes. It was as if she was channeling the fury of The Dark Lord and it was directed at him. Crabbe felt his bladder void in his pants and his dim eyes lit with a rare spark of intelligence: he finally comprehended who this person—under the pretty veneer—was. He was about to die at the wand end of a girl he had taunted and teased at Hogwarts and he suddenly knew that nothing he could do or say would make a difference to her.

"Shall we continue?" She asked him with a smile more befitting Bellatrix LeStrange than Hermione Granger.

He nodded weakly as his heart pounded against his ribs.

"Good boy," Hermione purred with an evil-happy voice. "How many Death Eaters came with you and Goyle?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Naughty boy, that doesn't answer my question: Crucio!"

Once again, Crabbe writhed in pain but this time Hermione remained aware of her toy's condition and she stopped before he lost consciousness again. _Definitely easier,_ she thought watching Crabbe painfully squirm under her wand. Showing no concern for her victim, she hoped he would last long enough to be satisfactory playmate; when, suddenly, the old Hermione popped into her mind. The old her felt appalled; not just because of her actions but because of her reaction to them: she was enjoying herself—plain and simple—and, for the first time, Hermione Granger realized that she might be a bit of a sadist. _Oh well,_ she thought shaking her former ideological self from her mind and thoughtfully concluded: _the moral high ground will not win this war nor ensure my survival; I will not die this soon._ She turned her attention back to Crabbe.

"How many Death Eaters?" She asked again.

"J . . . just m . . . me and G . . . Goyle. We c . . . came with . . . without p . . . permission because that Curtis guy told us y . . . you were here; w . . . we thought that the Dark Lord w . . . would re . . . reward us if we br . . . brought you to him."

"See, honestly is the best policy after all," Hermione said, responding cordially to his answer.

"It . . . it was you wa . . . wasn't it?"

"What was me?"

"The one who k . . . killed G . . . Goyle."

"I suppose you might say that," Hermione pondered aloud, "but you could also say that he killed himself: I was merely the tool of his departure."

Crabbe stared blankly, the truth of his intelligence clearly visible in his eyes, before stupidly asking, "Why did you kill him?"

"Crucio!" Hermione exclaimed and, maintaining her curse upon him, said almost hysterically just below the threshold of a scream, "I finally find someplace where I really belong and friends who really understand me! My life was going in a positive direction—maybe not the direction I had planned but positive all the same. I was no longer the girl who hung around with the 'Boy-Who-Lived' but Hermione Granger! Everything I had wanted, everything—safety! security! love! friendship!—was finally mine just because I was me and not someone's associate; then you, that piece of dragon dung Goyle and that foul treacherous Curtis barge in here and try to kill the people I love! They were family!"

Through tears, Hermione watched Crabbe's body roil and twist. He rolled to his side and arched his back impossibly backwards but he had yet to suffer enough to satisfy the dark creature lurking in her soul. She maintained the curse from one agonizing second to another as her eyes took in the sight of Kell's blood—still splattered and pooled on the floor beneath her feet. She forgot that the thrashing figure before her was once a human. She wanted it to suffer more, and it did, until her sorrow and anger waned enough for the fury to fade and her reason to return. Breathing heavily, she released her hex on what was left of Crabbe and stared at his body, still twitching in the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse; she didn't feel remorse. Blood was streaming from his eyes, his ears, his nose and mouth and Hermione reckoned that—even if his body was to survive long enough for help to arrive—he was, for all intents, still dead.

She pointed her wand at the pile of flesh that had once been Crabbe and whispered, "Avada Kedavra."

Another blob of green streaked from her wand and hit her former schoolmate, exhausting what little life his body still held. She turned from the now lifeless form and sprinted to her room. Quickly, she packed a few essentials, and a photo-album of memories, in her magically enhanced satchel before taking a last look around the room she had shared with Severus. Sadly, Hermione thought, _When will I be back?_ _Will I be back?_

With that last sad question lingering in her mind, she turned on her heel and disappareted from Roissy House.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 03**

With a resounding 'pop', a young witch emerged from the nether-realm—between disapperation and apperation—into a fog shrouded and quiet world; feeling marvelously disoriented. An eerie and haunting silence pressured her ears and her nose twitched with the acrid scent of burnt wood and smoke, a smell that lay heavily on the all-enveloping fog: a fog that was as English as 'bangers and mash' or 'high-tea with scones'. The mist prevented her eyes from seeing for more than a yard or two and hid any landmark that might've been handy to identify her location; leaving her thoroughly—and perhaps dangerously—lost. Hermione Granger, 'the smartest witch of her generation', had made a rookie mistake; she had ignored the three D's: destination, determination, and deliberation.

"Miss Granger, if your intent is to splinch yourself; by all means continue what you are doing," Hermione berated herself in her best Snape scolding Neville Longbottom, for the umpteenth time, tone.

_Merlin's beard, Hermione . . . if you want to survive, get your act together . . . if not, apperate yourself into oblivion, now, and save time,_ she thought as she faced the wall of grey fog shrouding her arrival. She took a moment and assessed her situation: Point one; she had survived the battle at Roissy House (no worse for wear but for having killed). Point two; she had saved or resurrected Kell (a matter requiring serious consideration, once she had the luxury of some spare time). Point three; the people responsible for her present circumstances were, thankfully, dead (she'd think about torturing and killing Vincent Crabbe . . . later). Point four; she had successfully escaped Roissy House to here—wherever here, was (her most immediate and vexing concern). Point five; acquire the knowledge and power needed to survive on her own. Hermione sighed and wished a breeze would dissipate the fog; at least, then, she might know where she was.

As if answering her simple wish, a light breeze blew the fog spiraling away, briefly; allowing her to see where she was: Point four, conveniently answered.

Hermione was looking down a very familiar but empty stretch of road, the meandering way between Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the hamlet of Hogsmead. The school gate was at her back. _This makes sense, I guess. This is the only place that I've ever felt safe or, let alone, like I belonged other than Roissy House, _she silently concluded as she turned to face the gate that lay twisted and half blown from its hinges. _What happened here?_ She thought, even as her mind leapt to the obvious and inevitable conclusion. _Voldemort._

The castle remained secreted by fog and unseen and she hoped it hadn't suffered too much damage, for the library's sake. It did not take a genius to know that without it, her future was bleak and; considering whom she was, Hermione would be hard-pressed to find a willing teacher. _Teach me?_ Hermione cynically mused. _There's only one person who could teach me and I definitely can't ask him. I can just imagine it: 'Excuse me Mr. Voldemort, sir—can you put aside killing me for a second and teach me how to defeat you, please?' Yep, I can see it now but I might get lucky; he might laugh so damn hard that he swallows his forked tongue and chokes himself._ She thought with mordant amusement.

With no teacher nearby—or on the distant horizon for that matter—she knew she was standing alone against an extremely hostile future. Hermione steeled her will, readied herself and; with her Gryffindor courage and Granger determination set, the young witch cast aside her doubts and took her first step: she found a viscous and opaque barrier, which fought her ever move.

With resolute intention, Hermione struggled against the invisible mire, which seemed intent on ensnaring her feet; and with all her strength, she slowly pushed forward. Panting and sweating, she forced her way through: Hermione was looking down a very familiar but empty stretch of road, the meandering way between Hogwarts and the hamlet of Hogsmead. The school gate, once more, at her back.

_This could be troublesome,_ she thought, as she considered the barrier before her. _I don't recognize the spell signature and its frequency is odd. It may be Dumbledore's but I don't know. Either way, whoever or whatever cast it was very skilled and the magic feels very old. I could try to counter it but a nasty trap or two could by lying in wait; I don't think I'll risk it. So, Miss Granger, if you're so damn smart, now what?_

Hermione pondered and reached the obvious option: Head to Hogsmeade and use one of the secret tunnels to the castle, if they hadn't collapsed_. I hope the Flume's are still alive, she thought. I'd rather use the Honeyduke tunnel and avoid dealing with the whomping willow if I can._ Heavy heartedly and obviously anxious, Hermione set out for Hogsmeade and quickly disappeared into the fog that swirled in her wake.

With slow, plodding and cautious steps she made her way to Hogmeades; ever vigilant in the silence hanging like a pall on the still air. The all-prevailing fog dampened her footfalls, allowing her to take solace in the fact that it was unlikely she would be heard approaching; unfortunately, that meant she was as unlikely to hear anyone approaching her. That was an uncomfortable thought, she realized, as she continued through time that felt oddly stretched and a grey-white world that was disorienting. Eventually, she reached Hogsmeade Station and with it, a flood of memories. A wisp of wind on the fog allowed her to see the station's empty platform and she immediately recalled her first encounter with Hagrid. _'__Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?'_ She distinctly remembered his booming voice and the feel of restless butterflies churning in her stomach. Hermione smiled sadly and the platform vanished into the fog from whence it came. The young witch pressed on.

Hermione entered the hamlet, proper, and her first sight was the charred and collapsed remains of The Three Broomsticks. Its blackened skeleton, though no longer smoking, scented the air with a pungent aroma; causing her eyes to water and sting in addition to the tears that had begun to fall. With the backs of her hands, she rubbed her eyes in both discomfort and disbelief as a Northerly breeze rose and swept away the blanket fog; revealing what remained of the tiny village. The Three Broomsticks had suffered no worse than the rest its neighbours: Hogsmeade had been rendered into piles of burnt wood and fallen masonry that looked somehow staler than expected, from a recent battle. Something felt off but Hermione couldn't put her finger on it as she passed ruins that, up until recently, had played an important role in her young life and with each fallen structure came the increasing revelation that she was utterly alone.

Letting her tears flow freely, Hermione reached what remained of Honeyduke's and crumpled to her knees. The sweetshop was like the rest of Hogsmeade and the conflagration that had swept through had left a pile of scorched debris; now collapsed into its basement. She knew, without looking, that even if the tunnel had survived the efforts needed to clear debris from its entrance were beyond what she was willing to give in time or effort. Feeling defeated, the young witch curled into a foetal position and cried.

— —**}{— —**

Hermione shivered and woke from a dreamless sleep, which had cunningly overpowered her common sense (as she had lain crying) and almost leapt to her feet. The quick action spun the world in vertigo and disorientation caused her to anxiously seek the familiar. _Oh yeah, I'm in Hogsmeade;_ she realized as she stitched together memories that made the world recognizable once more.

The fog that had been a damp blanket had since burned to haze and her eyes blinked in the glare of distorted sunlight. The sun was, decidedly, to her West and its position told her that more than a few minutes had passed since she had fallen asleep. She thought back to her arrival and remembered that the bright area, which had been the overcast sun, had been—once she had recognized her environs—to the Southeast. Her quick mind calculated that the day had advanced to late afternoon and that she had been sleeping for a few hours. Hermione stood aghast. _You could've been seen,_ she viciously berated herself, _you could've been captured or worse. What kind of fool falls asleep in the middle of a war zone? The only useful piece of information I get from such stupidity is the knowledge that I am, most assuredly, alone._

With a final look at Honeyduke's, she turned and pointlessly continued through Hogsmeade. As she passed the husks of once familiar places, Hermione silently recited their names. _This was Zonkos; that was Gladrags._ She thought in homage. _Over here was Scrivenshaft's. Madam Puddifoot's was up this road on my left and The Hog's Head was down that road on my right._

"I guess I have an appointment with a whomping willow," Hermione sighed, miserably, as she reached the vestige of what was once Dervish and Banges. "I hope The Shrieking Shack fared better than this lot."

With prospects fading, she turned and began walking to The Shrieking Shack. In her procession past youthful memories, she strode dejectedly onward and felt oddly out of touch with time. The more she looked, at the cadaver called Hogsmeade, the more she felt it didn't make sense and; no matter how hard she racked her brain, the reason eluded her. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she reached the path to the derelict looking hovel, turned and pushed on.

Hermione stood at The Shrieking Shack's gate and looked at the structure. She knew what it really was, whom it was for and far sturdier than it appeared; after all, it was built to contain the strength of a young werewolf. She remembered Fred and George once telling her that they had tried to break in but had never succeeded. That the Weasley twins failed did not attest to any feebleness in their innate magical abilities or strength—they had both in abundance. No, the Weasleys failed because a couple of underage wizards couldn't possibly overcome the author of the forces that held the structure together. Hermione hoped she'd fair better but in the face of Dumbledore's overwhelming reputation she had her doubts. She might be 'the brightest witch of her generation' but she was going up against a wizard who probably ranked near the top of the 'all time most powerful' list, not to mention a massive experience edge to boot. A grinding squeak announced her intentions as Hermione opened the gate and stepped through.

Casually fingering the silver tag—etched by an ornate SS—attached to the leather collar around her neck, Hermione closed her eyes and focused on the eddies of arcane energy emitted by The Shrieking Shack; what she felt surprised her. It was true that the building had known powerful magic but that was now a distant echo, barely enough remained to hold the structure up; let alone fend off or counter any destructive force or spell. To be sure, Hermione carefully made her way around the entire perimeter before stopping in front of the boarded up door; all sides where the same and radiated insufficient power to protect its crumbling exterior from even the weakest of spells.

"Fortuna smiles," Hermione said softly, drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed it at the door.

"Reducto!"

The resounding blast echoed across the surroundings as Hermione's spell reduced not just the door but its frame and a significant portion of wall to powder. It rained upon her; leaving a film of grey on her clothes, hair and skin as she viciously began coughing from the dust lodged in her throat. She hacked until her sides hurt and her eyes swam with tears that leaked down her cheeks; leaving muddy rills in their passing. Finally, after what felt like ages, the dust and her cough settled. In the now clear air, Hermione looked at her rewarded effort and gawked; her power had ripped a gaping hole in The Shrieking Shack and, from its dark interior, shadow seemed to bleed like murky blood into the ground at her feet. Cautiously, she stepped towards the opening.

"Lumos."

The beam of light cut the darkness before her and she peered inside. The interior of The Shrieking Shack had not changed—not that she had expected it to—since her adventures during what she privately considered to be 'The Lupin Era' of her education. As she thought that, she realized that she had—at some point—divided her Hogwarts' experience into epochs named after her Defense Against the Dark Arts' professors. Her first year had been The Quivering Quirrell Era; her second, The Lying Lockhart Era; her fourth, The Mock Moody Era and so on. In each 'epoch' Harry, Ron and she had faced challenges that most of the Wizarding World didn't want to know about; let alone face. _That's what happens when your best friend is 'The Boy Who Lived',_ Hermione thought with a mental chuckle, _but that definitely provides a practical education._

Gingerly, she stepped through the hole and entered The Shrieking Shack. Her wand beam lit little to her sides and didn't penetrate very far inside, forcing her to shorten her stride with every cautious step across the debris littered floor. Stumbling only once Hermione reached the opening, leading to the tunnel, and peered over the edge. The dark pit swallowed the feeble light from her wand, revealing little more than roots that grew into floorboards and a pitch-black maw that was the tunnel. A damp musty smell wafted on a gentle breeze, rhythmically rising and falling like breath; uncomfortably, it made her feel as if she stood at the mouth of a sleeping beast. Pushing such unnerving imagery from her mind, she sat and allowed her legs to dangle over the edge and mustered her courage. _No point putting it off Miss Granger,_ she thought, _sitting here does not get me any closer to my goal._ Carefully, she lowered herself over the ragged lip and dropped the short distance to the tunnel floor.

If this tunnel had been confining at fourteen, it was downright claustrophobic, now, and Hermione found herself stooping to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. Soft, powdered dirt hungrily devoured the sound of her steps; leaving her passage hushed but for the sound of nervous breath and the rustle of clothes. Her wand cast a minimal cone of light, barely strong enough to show the tunnel walls yet enough to keep her from stumbling on the odd root; and, behind her, darkness rushed to fill the furrow of her passing. It swallowed the world at her back, leaving nothing but a great black void; relentlessly pursuing her, noiselessly, like a stalking panther. Ubiquitously, the scent of loam permeated the stagnant air until she drew near the tunnel's end, where it freshened with the rise of the floor leading to the exit. At last, a dim glow welcomed her and she hastened her pace.


End file.
